


Shine On You Crazy Diamond

by Lydia_Pickled_Herring



Category: Mayhem (Band)
Genre: Angst, Attempts at summoning Chtulu, Bromance, Friendship, Gen, Grief, How did that song go? Oh right 'Love stinks', I can't tag to save my life, Jealousy, Love triangles (kind of), M/M, Making Out, Manipulation, Misery for the sake of misery, No sex because I'm a prude, Suicide, Unrequited Love (Kind of), doubting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 15:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16328273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lydia_Pickled_Herring/pseuds/Lydia_Pickled_Herring
Summary: "O, I call upon on you, powerful spirit of Cthulhu, to damn this mighty circle, as we gather here today to assist our brother in metal, known within the cult as Necrobutcher, get over the little bitch-ass demon known formally as Øystein Sven Aarseth but within these circles as Euronymous. We call upon his demonic assistance to push our friend to betterness and unbitch-assedness so that we can release a bitching new record. Ramen." He clasped his hands in a prayer position, gesturing an inverted cross. "Hail the mighty cephalopod!!!" He bellowed, throwing his arms away from him.“Ramen.” Kjetil whispered solemnly, bowing his head."Are you fucking done yet?" Jørn hissed, casually omitting the fact that Øystein didn't have a middle name and if he did, it probably wouldn't be something like'Sven'.Years later, Jørn Stubberud still seems to be going through the five stages of grief.





	Shine On You Crazy Diamond

**Author's Note:**

> So... uh.. yeah, this is a lot of words. I also posted it on RF but that doesn't really matter. According to Necrobutcher they played Shine on You Cry Diamond at Euronymous' funeral which totally hurts... I guess wether or not he's a manipulative asshole in this or not is sort of up to interpretation. Actually, it'd be interesting to know what people think since I don't think he's Mayhem's most loved member.
> 
> The Kraftwerk song that's supposed to be playing during 'that scene' is Computer Love, in case anyone is curious or wants to listen to it.
> 
> (AlSo DiScLaImEr: obviously this is fanfiction and they actually died before I was born anyway)

_Well you wore out your welcome with random precision,_  
rode on the steel breeze.  
Come on you raver, you seer of visions,  
come on you painter,  
you piper, you prisoner, and shine!  
**Pink Floyd; Shine On You Crazy Diamond**

.

.

.

 

After years of living on unstable grounds, even the basics of everyday life could begin to feel like a task. Jørn worries a lot, sometimes more, sometimes less. He has a grown daughter who calls him every night to reassure him that it's all going fine and his wife understands close enough so the misery to her is nearly palpable. Not that Jørn wants to share the bad nearly as much as the media enjoys perpetuating it. But by the time three decades hit, Jørn figures that the myth will _always_ outweigh the music. 

Jan started embracing it a long time ago, saying that he continues to do what he loves to do and that if it's the mistake of two lives past already.. god, how many years has it been now? That feed him and his family, he's willing to take it. He's willing to see the good for what it is, even if he'll admit after a few drinks that he doesn't like it much either.

In a way, it will never feel like they're gone, their memories live on and on and they will never die that second death. It comes in the form of anniversaries and nosy journalists who can't mind their own fucking business.

Jørn knows that Per would _hate_ it, because he never wanted that attention. What’s going on now would make him want to claw his eyes out, but Øystein's opinion is still up to speculation. 

Jan laughs about these things, he can embrace them as well. Jan has _always_ been better at embracing these sorts of things. 

On the surface, you could’ve said that Jan is just a stronger person, he's not much of an empath. The truth is, Jørn couldn't fault him as Jan never knew Øystein or Pelle quite like he did. In the years between 87-91 he was going places, chasing his next high.

While Jørn spent most of those years fucking up.

 

 

They reconnected during Øystein's funeral, with a shitty one-liner that somehow still made him crack a smile.

"Well... now that the east no longer divides the west, how 'bout we just get shitfaced now, comrade?" Jan said, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets as he walked up behind Jørn. Jørn turned around, noticing that Jan's tan skin was reaching a sallow tint. It was only mid-August yet the weather sucked.

"Well… uh…I don't think Øystein would've really liked that." He said with a dry chuckle, rocking back on the heels of his running shoes as he looked around the venue once more. They held it somewhere open, lord knows why.

Jan's grin widened to manic proportions, pushing his curly hair back when a particularly strong gust of wind threw it forwards.

"Exactly." He tapped his temple wisely.

If they were insistent on using Berlin Wall analogies to describe the social pariah that became of Øystein Aarseth, then Jan ought to know that that wall never was torn down, not completely.

But still, nodding at the ground with a tight-lipped smile, Jørn outweighed the pros and cons while tapping his foot. He highly doubted Øystein could even see what they were up to, down here in this miserable blue ball of hell. Øystein wasn’t around to bitch and moan about it when he _was_ alive. So, he looked at Jan and shrugged,

"Sure, why not?" And somehow Jan found a way to grin even wider.

"Sweet, let's get going. This shit’s a bore and I fucking hate this song." He said, pointing his thumb to the speakers which blared out 'Back in Black'. It drew another laugh from Jørn, who knew Øystein would've have hated it as well.

 

Out of the two of them, Jan took Øystein becoming worm food the best. It was Per's death that left him irritated and confused. He told Jørn that evening that he had said his goodbyes to Øystein long before he was murdered. It was Per’s suicide that did his head in because he never expected him to actually go through with it. And he never expected Per to succeed either.

He spoke so freely of death that it was like discussing the weather. He said he'd die that night but always woke up the next morning all the same, until he finally didn't. A few days before Jørn’s birthday, at that.

It was Øystein, who seemed to assign virtually no importance to anyone's life other than his own. It was Øystein who looked down upon others, who bit off more than he could ever chew, who was all bark yet no bite.

"Living life like that, man... it was bound to happen. Call me a dickhead to the highest degree, but I'm not even surprised. I'm not happy about it, don't get me wrong, but I knew he'd die like this, I just didn't know when. We all knew, he probably knew too.. Bastard was probably looking forward to it...planning it and everything…" Jan mumbled, lying spread eagle on his bed as Jørn hung his arm out of the window. He took a lazy drag of his cigarette before looking out in the road, counting all the little cars and people.

"I wouldn't be surprised if he wanted things to end like that either." Jørn said, and it struck him then how much he actually meant that. His head buzzed with all the booze and letting his cigarette drop, Jørn walked over and lay down next to him, the old mattress caving with their weight.

"Øystein was Øystein," he rasped, his thoughts going nonsensical as the freshness of the wound stung, "I wouldn't be shocked if he orchestrated the whole damn thing... 'Know he didn't, but i’m just sayin' with how that fucker viewed the value of life... I wouldn't be shocked if the ultimate act of self-preservation for him was getting snuffed out while he was still on top." Jørn realized he was going off, his face red with emotion. "Dead before he could go soft on all of us mere mortals, incapable of comprehending his ‘true genius’..."

"Øystein is the king of self-preservation." Jan agreed, taking another swig of his beer, letting it dribble down his jaw with a soft 'ahh'.

"Øystein is the _king_ of self-preservation." Nodded Jørn, before he threw his wrist over his face, finding it difficult to keep his eyes open anymore.

"Damn shame that he bloody sucked at it... Lazy, commie fucker.." Jan grinned ruefully as Jørn nodded again, his chin quivering. Jan glanced over at him, laughing as Jørn began to cry.

"Come on, man, you need another fucking shot." He squeezed his shoulder.

"I'm one more fuckin' shot away from alcohol poisoning." Jørn mumbled with a quavering voice, wiping his bloodshot eyes as Jan stumbled over to pour him another drink.

“Hey, if you're next then it's only a matter of time before the grim reaper comes for me too. Maybe we're all fucking cursed. Maybe that's what this is.” Jan joked darkly.

“Yeah, maybe it is…” The sun must have stopped shining for a few seconds on the day they first met.

 

 

Although it was funny how it was only then that they formed some sort of relationship together, Jørn still chose not to question it. Death often brought people closer. 

Jan helped him move out of his old cabin and into a new one, he helped him get a car, he even picked his daughter up from fucking _daycare_ and didn't make fun of him— _too much_. All the while, Dead and Euronymous became ubiquitous, practically spawning an entire mythos only vaguely resembling the truth.

It became so saturated that what really happened in those few short years lost itself somewhere in the translations. Jan never minded this either, stating that the lies were far more interesting than the truth. 

On the rare occasions Jørn still met up with Jon, Jon, on the other hand, admitted with a sheepish smile that he wished he would've been more careful with what he said. That it's all fun and games until someone gets hurt or ends up in a casket six feet underground.

"You know," Jon sighed, looking down at his knees, "Sometimes I think that, fuck, man…. it's all _my_ fault. That I shouldn't have told him 'yeah, yeah, do that, that'll look super cool'. I should've just sat him down and told him not to get so caught up in it. But I didn't. Instead I told him to do it because it would look cool."

Jørn leaned back in the lawn chair, staring out into the lake, "Well, you forget that the Øystein we knew isn't the Øystein that," His voice faltered, "…died."

Then Jon turned to him, glaring fiercely before he shook his head, "Øystein was always Øystein, even if sometimes you had to dig deep to see him. He will _always_ be that guy who waited outside of Conrad Schnitzler's house for hours."

"I guess." Jørn mumbled, before taking a deep breath. Suddenly the frays of his jeans seemed so fascinating. He could still visualize it well, Øystein coming home with a stack of records in his arms, smiling brightly with a 'Hey! You'll never guess what just happened!'. 

Whatever did end up happening to that Øystein? Jon crushed the can of beer before throwing it somewhere, mumbling something Jørn didn't quite catch.

 

Whenever tragedies occurred, it was human nature to place the blame on something, anything. Pelle's death was Øystein's fault and Øystein's own death was Øystein's fault as well. Somehow, knowing all of this never made it any easier for Jørn. It only made him more pissed off. Where had he failed to act?

"Jørn, Jørn, _listen to me_ , there is no one to blame." Jan tells him after one too many shots of jack and too many hours spent listening to Jørn complain. "What's happened, happened." He said with a finalizing hand gesture.

Jørn's head lulls back and he hiccups out, "Don't fucking tell me it was fate that everyone ended up croaking, 'cos I don't wanna hear it!"

"That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying that they made their choices and who the fuck are we to tell them that their choices were wrong?" He threw his arms from him, holding up an invisible skull as he began to wax philosophy.

"They're fucking dead!!" Jørn shouted mid-to be or not to be as Jan rolled his eyes as he was in the presence of a fucking _baby_.

“Jørn, do you remember that Stanley Kubrick movie? The one about the Cold War?"

"No." Jørn said, his fist tightening around the neck of his beer, the alcohol continuing to punch him in the gut over and over. He felt as if he was about to _puke._

"Well, you gotta do like the title says, learn to stop worrying and love the bomb. Love the fucking bomb, man. There's _nothing_ you can do about it anymore." Jan exclaimed.

"You are so bloody fucking drunk, man." Snorted Jørn.

Jan had this stupid way of going about things and they spent the first several years in close contact before their family lives inevitably drove them apart. 

But before that, Jørn became the test subject of many of Jan's pseudo-psychological schemes, often involving dramatizing of the depth of Jørn's emotions towards their late bandmates and proceeding to make him fucking _suffer_ for them.

 

"So you brought Kjetil into this too." Jørn grumbled as he walked down the stairway, finding Kjetil sat there in the dingy, old basement. "I don't want to do this." He told nobody in particular. It was futile, there was no escape.

"It's for your own good." Kjetil nodded solemnly, crossing his arms as Jørn felt his blood boil.

"Not a fucking word out of you!" He snapped as Jan waltzed in bearing a bottle of Jaegermeister in one hand and a Coke in the other. "This is insanity! You're insane!" Jørn shouted, going green as they forced him to regurgitate old memories of the rare occasions Øystein would let himself get wasted.

"You're doing it, Jørn. Your PTSD is getting annoying." Announced Jan as Kjetil walked over to huddle Jørn down on the lumpy sofa, like he was handling a bratty little girl.

"Sue me! I don't like looking at Coca-Cola and Jaegermeister! What fucking more do you want?" He defended, swallowing hard as Jan set both on the coffee table with an ominous slam. 

"And why do I have to do this while listening to Pink Floyd?!"

"Because I see that look you get whenever it comes on, and I don't fucking like it." Jan snapped, already moving for the music player. “Well not everything is about what you fucking like!” Jørn shot back as Kjetil placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

Jan waved him off.

"Is that Øystein's old mix tape?" Jørn asked, his mouth going dry as he saw the cover of the cassette, in curly handwriting, Penk Floyd mix II.

_Penk Floyd._

Jørn wondered whatever happened to mix one. 

It probably burned with the rest of his shit.

"Yeah. If you survive this, you can have it. Now," Jan said as the cassette of what conveniently was all of Øystein's favourite tracks began to roll. He sat down on the ground as Kjetil urged Jørn to follow. When Jørn continued to look at him like a jail warden, he kicked him down.

Of course it's 'Shine On You Crazy Diamond' that played first. _Typical_. Jørn was pretty sure Øystein's fucked all his girlfriends to that stupid-ass song.

"Let us all join hands." Announced Jan, holding out his hands with his palms facing out. Jørn glared at Kjetil, who took his hand. 

"All of us here are nearly thirty year old men, remember that?" He said through grit teeth.

"Fucks sake! Just do it, Jørn!" Kjetil snapped, forcing him to join hands with both of them as Jan took a deep breath to brace himself for the drivel he was about to spout.

He closed his eyes before chanting out,

"O, I call upon on you, powerful spirit of Cthulhu, to damn this mighty circle, as we gather here today to assist our brother in metal, known within the cult as Necrobutcher, get over the little bitch-ass demon known formally as Øystein Sven Aarseth but within these circles as Euronymous. We call upon his demonic assistance to push our friend to betterness and unbitch-assedness so that we can release a bitching new record. Ramen." He clasped his hands in a prayer position, gesturing an inverted cross. "Hail the mighty cephalopod!!!" He bellowed, throwing his arms away from him.

“Ramen.” Kjetil whispered solemnly, bowing his head.

"Are you fucking done yet?" Jørn hissed, casually omitting the fact that Øystein didn't have a middle name and if he did, it probably wouldn't be something like _'Sven'._

"Yeah, bottoms up." Said Jan, back to normal as he uncapped the bottle of Jaegermeister and Coca Cola.

He poured them in separate cups before handing them over to Jørn. "Drink up."

"Fuck you." Jørn said, before accepting his fate and the free booze that came with it.

 

Pelle's death would always be easier to accept than Øystein's was, partially because there were less broken pieces. 

With Pelle, Jørn only had a single question, which was:

Why? 

Why couldn't Per reach out to him? Why would he be so hellbent on dying? Didn't he enjoy hanging out with Jørn and his family? Didn't he enjoy making music? Going out on stage? Scaring people? Having a damn good bloody time?

Why would he throw it all away? Why would he want to leave them all down here to rot knowing that there was absolutely nothing out there? When it came, his death resembled a sharp knife driven into Jørn's back. Pushed all the way to his tailbone with both Jan and Øystein's utter fucking indifference. As if Per Yngve Ohlin the human being didn't matter to them.

When it came down to Øystein, the same grief he felt for Pelle was always mixed with anger, betrayal, hatred, confusion, and _desire_. All of it was a drink as noxious and toxic as being shit-faced, stumbling drunk on Jaegermeister and Coke, with Pink Floyd thumping deep in his ears.

Jørn passed out on the couch, finally just giving out.

"Jørn? Jørn?! What the fuck are you doing?!" He woke up to somebody slapping his face over and over.

His eyes opened slowly to see a blurry, eighteen year old Øystein, bent over him in his leather jacket, the one Jørn helped him make patches for.

_"Øystein?"_

He had that same chubby face and slanted blue eyes. Except now they were wide open.

"Hello? Earth to Jørn? Can you see me? Hellooooo?" He waved his hand in Jørn's face, his knee hitting his hip as his lip curled into a frustrated semi-pout.

"Yeah… yeah, I can see you alright.." Jørn rasped, feeling the slight weight on his legs as Øystein frowned at him, bracing a hand against the couch cushion. He still had that fucking gigantoid forehead too. Jørn's head fell against his shoulder, trying to control his shallow breathing and the growing expansion in his chest.

"What the hell are you doing this for? You know it can kill you, right?" Øystein said and the confusion rang annoyingly sincere.

"Why the fuck do you care? You're already dead." Mumbled Jørn, frowning back at him as he blinked a few times for clarity. His peripheral was still a blurry mess.

"Yeah, well, I can see you from 'up there'." 

"And do you like what you see?" He questioned.

"No." Øystein deadpanned, before giggling, his fingertips touching Jørn's cheek.

"Chillax, Jørn. I'm doing alright and so is Pelle. It's real peaceful 'up there', so stop bugging that pretty little head of yours. We're just living our lives, having our own little fun."

He ruffled Jørn's hair, laughing softly at his cross expression. He leaned down to kiss the tip of his nose, cold breath brushing against his face as Jørn reached out to touch him, hug him, anything. Anything just to hold him for one last time, even for a split second.

"Øystein, I-"

"Pelle misses you too, he says hi."

"Øystein!" Jørn's snapped open, seeing the cracked, popcorn ceiling and 'Øystein' gone. His stomach contracted painfully, twisting as he forced himself off the sofa and made a beeline for the bathroom. 

He threw up with loud heaves, his throat burning as an equally hungover Kjetil rushed to check on him. 

“You alright, man?” Then he saw Jørn with his head in the toilet bowl and sighed, “Right…”

Kjetil stumbled back to the loveseat.

That dream kept him up for days, until he was practically forced, despite himself, to attempt to communicate with Øystein's spirit. When that tanked and he tried it with Pelle, Jørn assumed that there really was nothing up there and that he really needed to cut back on the booze.

He envies religious people. Religion always involves some sort of afterlife to dull the ache of an inherently meaningless existence. Isn't that why gods existed? Just iron deities set out to distract humanity from the futility of its creation? They were just little people in an ever expanding universe with nothing to do than pray to their imaginary friends. Death always hurt the non-believers the hardest, Jørn would've reckoned, because once you're gone, you're fucking gone. Nothing's ever gonna bring you back but alcohol-fuelled day dreams, faded photographs and your past mistakes.

Eventually, Jørn found his hard ground and his raison d'être. Time, being the ever-flowing force that it was, meant that things shaped and morphed until the cells in his body all died off and regenerated, and his skin shed giving him a new life barely burned by the years past.

Nothing could ever make sense of what used to be and just what happened between those years. It was complicated and the more he dug the more there were holes. He never forgot the little things most people did, he was the type of guy who had a lot of keepsakes. He didn't forget the way Øystein giggled, or the way Pelle smiled, with his nose screwed up and all thirty two of his teeth bared.

He could remember every single movie that he and Pelle watched together, on their couch, he could remember all of his little faces. The way his clothes fucking stank from the outside.

He remembered what Øystein ate for breakfast every morning down to how many pats of butter he put in his ‘gruel’. The way he hated sweets but loved cinnamon, licking it off his fingers or, to piss someone off, smear his sticky hands all over them. His hair was always a greasy mess, there was an experiment once done in which he, Billy and Kjetil attempted to wash his hair throughly, but even after three hours worth of lathering and rinsing and repeating, Øystein's glossy, fluffy hair separated back into its usual strings in a matter of forty minutes. 

It would be better to only remember the good but sometimes the bad helped see the hindsight, what was real and what just _wasn't_. Certainly, Jørn never wanted his life story to become a sensation. He never wanted to be left with the frayed strings of everyone else's bullshit. It was little by little. Subtle. He was powerless to stop it, either too passive or having lost his opportunity somewhere in the months elapsed.

It was the cut labeled 'Øystein' that always refused to close. Jørn blamed it on the history and proximity. It was difficult to imagine that at some point Øystein was his closest friend, especially with all of the times he used him and took advantage of him. 

 

"Jørn?"

"What?"

"Let me kiss you."

Jørn wasn't even attracted to men, Øystein just managed to manipulate that too. He sitting cross-legged on the ground, playing Kraftwerk's 'Computer World'. There must of been some trust there because Jørn could've easily went telling everybody of Øystein's little transgression. 

He didn't, he just sat there in utter disbelief.

"What the fuck?" He whispered, trying to convince himself that he just heard wrong. Øystein was crazy, but he wasn't _that_ crazy.

"I'm curious." Øystein responded with a little shrug and after a few seconds of silence, Jørn firmly declared, "Absolutely _not._ "

"Why?" He pouted. Looking back on it, even that was laced with sardon. Øystein knew he'd get what he exactly wanted. He _always_ did.

"'Cause I'm straight? Get someone else to do it if you swing that way but don't involve me." Jørn rolled his eyes, turning on his side when he should've just gotten up and left. He didn't even agree with homosexuality, didn't think it was real. It made no sense why to Jørn why he still chose to stick around. Maybe back then part of him felt like he needed Øystein and Øystein needed him back.

"Jørn." Øystein frowned, climbing on the bed. It squeaked as he crawled over to Jørn and hovered over him. "I want to do _research_ , who are you to deny your bestest, closest friend of your assistance?"

“I think I'm straight, that's what.” Replied Jørn.

"I'm just curious, it's not even a big deal. You're acting like if you kiss me it means we're in love or something. I'm just curious." Øystein repeated with a small whine. Jørn thought he sounded like a dictator.

"But why me?" He sighed.

"Because you're the only one who regularly brushes their teeth." Øystein shrugged, like he didn't know why but also didn't care.

"Yeah but I've got ‘cigarette breath’." Jørn snorted. The logic never added up,it was probably just an Øystein thing. He likely really _didn't_ know why he decided Jørn would be a good option. It wasn't that deep.

"What's more evil than homosexuality?" He challenged.

"I dunno...'Guess I'm not evil then." Jørn hummed, propping an arm beneath his head, doing his best to reason with him.

"Come on then, Jørn, sin with me." Øystein laughed, patting Jørn's face. 

His laugh was infectious.

"But I don't want to." He laughed, "Why the fuck do you need to find out what it feels like to kiss a guy anyway? That's so weird.”

"I have a gay friend from the Rød Ungdom and he tells me shit sometimes, it got me wondering if there's even a difference or if that's just something that we're taught, y’know, ‘you've gotta like kissing girls’?."

Jørn laughed, thinking that sounded fucking stupid, "I'm pretty sure it's because it's natural. A man and a man can't make children, Øystein. Why don't you just ask him? He's gay, he actually _enjoys_ kissing men."

"What? No! I can't ask him, he's _gay_." He said ‘gay’ like it was a bad word.

"So you're asking me specifically because you know I don't want to kiss other men."

"Yeah, cause it's no strings attached." Jørn sighed and in the brief moment where he tried to think of how to answer, Øystein just leaned in and pressed their mouths together anyway.

"I didn't give you the okay to do that..." Jørn mumbled, sinking deeper in the mattress as he tried to process that Øystein’s lips were just on his.

"I know, just quelling your moral panic. Unless you're suddenly gay for me."

"I'm not." Jørn said firmly although his lips were still tingling.

"Alright... so…. can I kiss you, Jørn?" Jørn knew even then that Øystein would keep nagging him until he gave in.

"Fine, sit up." He conceded, before putting a hand on Øystein’s shoulder and leaning in.

At first, he sat there on his bed, eyes wide open as Øystein's mouth was pressed against his. It was almost sexless, there was a strange disconnect. Although it was undeniably not-painful, there was still the factor of who's mouth was kissing him. 

It made it impossible for Jørn to lose himself in it, not to be self-conscious. If Øystein decided he bloody sucked at kissing then Øystein likely wasn't above making fun of him for it in private.

Øystein’s teeth clamped around his lower lip, pulling it gently and letting it snap back.

"Don't do that." He warned, feeling something hot begin to simmer inside of his stomach. Of course the idiot had to take it as an invitation to do it again. With a small grunt, Jørn returned the favour, biting him hard. The conservative hand settled at the back of Jørn’s neck found itself in his hair, fisting as they kissed harder, as if they were competing to outdo one another. 

After that, Jørn didn't care as much as perhaps he should have.

His tongue pushed through his lips and Jørn was pretty sure that counted more as ‘making out’ than just a simple kiss. Øystein slowly pushed him back down, crawling over top. 

For the most part, Jørn tried hard not to touch him, to just focus on his mouth and let Øystein have his fucked-up fun. It was passionless in that sense, although his tongue was inside of his mouth, none of it felt _real_. With Øystein, nothing felt real. Was that why Jørn gravitated to him?

With his trembling hands, Jørn reached out to tuck a small clump of black hair behind Øystein’s ear before he slapped it away sharply.

"Stop." He whispered, his eyes wide like saucers. The moment was over just like that.

"Hypocrite." Jørn spat, pushing him off, "I'm going to go rinse my mouth." And Jørn wondered why being rejected by Øystein stung just as badly as it did.

 

That was one of the biggest questions Øystein ever left him with. His sexuality. Although Jørn preferred not to think about it he still asked Varg during the one visit he made, after Jan forced Jørn to face him.

"Is what you said true? Er... About the dildo thing?" 

Varg didn't answer for a good ten seconds, drumming his finger tips against the desk. Once he finally knew what exactly he wanted to say, his voice lowered, "... No, that wasn't true.”

Jørn felt his shoulders drop.

“But make no mistake, Jørn, that _bastard_ still preferred the company of men.” Varg warned and Jørn had to convince himself that Varg just enjoyed seeing that anxious look on Jørn’s face. Jørn asked Jan about it later that day when they met up at the bar and Jan’s response was:

“I’ve got my suspicions that Øystein was a faggot but… I guess we’ll never truly know. Why? Did you ever see him with a guy or something?” 

Jørn shook his head, “Nah… I didn't.”

He took a deep breath, “But being around Varg today was heavy shit, you know?” He lied.

 

If Øystein was gay, then was it possible that the reason why he kissed Jørn was because he had actual feelings for him? 

The more Jørn analyzed it, the more likely it seemed that Øystein was just using him. If Øystein was gay, then surely, he was in love with _Pelle_ and not him.

He became obsessed with him once he joined. It seemed to thrill him in a way nobody else managed to. Per managed to encompass everything Øystein wanted in a human being and it troubled _everybody_. 

Jørn could never tell what he felt and for who, but more often than not, Jørn no longer knew what he felt for Øystein either. 

He grew closer to Pelle after some time, being that Jørn was unusually good at taking care of people. It put a strain on their friendship until Jørn had a hard time thinking of anything positive to say of Øystein. He had a hard time not second guessing his friendship with Øystein to begin with. Really, what were they? What had Øystein ever done for him? Did he even respect Jørn or did he view him as malleable and unobtrusive to his life?

There _were_ moments where Jørn understood just what it was that he saw in Øystein that day at the bus stop but not ones that were without their own set of questions. They kissed once more and it was the last time Jørn ever kissed a member of his own sex.

 

"Øystein?" Jørn poked his head inside of his bedroom, checking to see if Øystein was asleep. 

"Yeah?" He found him sitting on the windowsill, reading a book in the moonlight.

"Just here to check up on you." Jørn shrugged, slipping in the room, taking the neutrality of Øystein’s voice as a sign that he wasn't annoyed by him. Jørn walked over and sat on the windowsill with Øystein, hugging his knees to his chest.

"Oh... uh.. thanks, mom? I'm fine." He laughed softly, folding the book shut. Jørn turned everybody’s body language into a probabilities chart those days. Øystein was giving him his attention, that was a good sign. 

Jørn opened his mouth before closing it, rewording himself, "Well... Pelle socked you in the face so..." He trailed off, recalling how Øystein and Per were arguing about something so _trivial_ , something about not liking the way the other did something. Øystein shoved him into the countertop and Per retaliated by punching him square in the face.

Øystein's fingers rose to touch his nose before he shook his head, "Oh, that? I'm fine. Although it sucks that I gotta get socked for you to give a fuck about me nowadays." He laughed hollowly, “Don't worry though, I'm not gonna sue...”

Jørn frowned, "Øystein, It's not that I don't give a fuck. I've tried to hang with you, but you won't let me in." Øystein was either up in Oslo, hanging out with Jon, at the library, at work, or simply didn't want to be bothered.

It was Øystein's turn to hug his knees, "I guess we've just grown apart then..." He mumbled.

"Guess so." Jørn sighed, looking off to the side. Was that his cue to fuck off? That Øystein knew longer had any use for him? "What's up with you though?"

"We _live together_ , Jørn." He laughed as if he didn't get it, "You should know what I'm up to." 

"Well, you're closed off nowadays." Jørn said with a pfft, "I used to be able to read you like a book but now... man, I just… I don’t know…I meant what's up _here_ though, what's going on in your head?” Jørn leaned over and rapped his knuckles against Øystein’s temple. 

Jørn realized as their eyes met that, actually, he _couldn't_ read Øystein like an open book. Jørn only knew what he would let him know. And Øystein knew that perfectly, and that maybe, at that very moment, Øystein scared himself little bit.

But Øystein on the other hand? He could likely read Jørn _blind._

Øystein knew, without even being told, that for his birthday, Jørn would want the new cowboy boots they saw whilst they were window-shopping together. He knew it just by studying Jørn’s actions and expressions.

Jørn, on the other hand, never knew what Øystein wanted for his birthday. He just resolved to buy him as many packs of Coca-Cola as he could afford, knowing that at the very least, Øystein loved Coca-Cola. 

But what _did_ Øystein want for his birthday? What did Øystein even want point blank, out of anything?

 

“Uhm….”

"That's sad." Øystein said softly, finally breaking the awkward silence. He scratched the back of his neck, "I've been... okay, I guess. A little lonely though, which is weird because I'm living with three guys but..." He didn't complete his sentence.

"Yeah, that's weird." Jørn furrowed his eyebrows, thinking that on the other hand, he could use some of that loneliness.

"If it was just me and—” Øystein cut himself off and cleared his throat, “I think what I’m tryna say that all of this is fuckin' weird... stuff changed."

"Stuff changed." Jørn agreed. If it was just Øystein and _who?_ Jørn realized that… fuck it. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to mess himself up with Øystein. He didn't want to uncover the secrets any longer.

Øystein sighed, because maybe he was hoping to hear something else, "Yeah, and it's making me weird, Jørn. I'm alright. I don't mean to push you away though, that's just what ended up happening." He shook his head, resting his cheek against his kneecaps. His greasy, black hair hung off his legs like a fucked up waterfall.

"It's no big deal." Jørn murmured, somehow it felt like a breakup. Jørn wished he would've say different things but back then he wasn't mature enough. He did the best he could and the best he could do is tell himself that he didn't care all that much about Øystein either.

"What are you reading?" Jørn asked on a whim, jutting his chin towards the book Øystein held his finger between.

"This? Uh.... I don't really know, I got it from the library but it's not very interesting." He chuckled. 

By then, there were things that were excruciatingly difficult to ignore about Øystein. Even back then, Jørn had reservations of his sexuality, especially when he so rarely seemed interested in women. But he also had become aware of how Øystein could make _him_ feel. 

He blamed that stupid kiss, it fucked him up mentally. Jørn never could pinpoint what about Øystein he found attractive but something was there. At first, Jørn told himself that it wasn't sexual, it was just something platonic and emotional. But then there were things about Øystein that he just _couldn't_ forget. 

Jørn would lie there in his bed and in the sequences of beautiful women, there was fragments of Øystein there. 

First, his voice, the sounds of his laughter. His hands, on his shoulders, chest, neck. What was he like? What did he want? The scent of his skin, hair. He could see those horrible, blue eyes behind straggles of poorly dyed raven hair, spit slick lips spread apart in a little smirk.

"Jørn..." His voice is dark, deep and milky. His teeth are small and gapped and look crooked in the wrong lighting. 

"Jørn, I want you."

What did Øystein want from him? Just what the fuck did he want from him?

He'd have to stop and go wash his hands, mouth, face, body, just to feel clean again. It was Øystein for fucks sake. Just Øystein. No one else.

Yet, Øystein sat there in his red shirt and black jeans. His hair was in his face and he was mumbling about something. 

Jørn watched him carefully, knowing how much he liked to talk and even liking how much Øystein _could_ talk.

There was no answer to the question of whether Jørn ever found Øystein aesthetically pleasing as a whole. There was however, the awareness that he was so _beautiful_ when he smiled. If he did that more often, Jørn would reckon he wouldn't have been so alone.

Jørn found himself leaning in, pressing their mouths together clumsily to shut Øystein up. 

Øystein lips faltered before pressing back.

"What's that for?" He whispered, his eyebrows drawn. He looked confused and yet not angry…

"Returning the favour and-or payback." Was the shitty excuse Jørn managed to come up with.

Øystein instantly caught on, " _That?_ That was years ago."

"Oh well… Vengeance is still mine..." Mumbled Jørn. This time Øystein's hands were on his shoulders, maybe subtly pulling Jørn closer. He couldn't remember clearly. But they ended up kissing again and that time there was an opportunity for analysis. He told himself that maybe he could purge this feeling by seeing just what started it. But his mind was numb.

Jørn knew subconsciously that, really? He just wanted to kiss Øystein again and that there might not have been a gnawing, psychological reason behind it.

Øystein’s fingers were pulling his hair, his goddamn hair that Øystein could make a career out of bitching about. He whined all the time about how much he hated it, how it was shaggy and the bangs made Jørn look like an unkept drug addict.

It was open mouthed and sloppy that time, his chest heaving, unable to breathe properly. A desperation that wasn't there earlier. And Jørn could only throw accusations.

Maybe he's gay, maybe _he is_ , and now that Per is around, Øystein's frustrated from being at such a close proximity with somebody he'll _never_ have. Jørn shoved him into the wall and Øystein's grip slipped, grabbing into the flesh of his back, bitten-down nails digging deep into his skin.

And? So? Why? It's so _embarrassing_. His tongue was shoved deep down his throat and Øystein's shoulders trembled. He groaned, lord knows whether it was out of pain or pleasure or both. 

Pushing himself off yet still holding Øystein at a safe distance, Jørn took such loud breaths that it was sheer luck nobody heard and came to check. And it was Øystein who perpetuated it, because it _always_ is always was, and always will be. He bit down Jørn’s neck, fingers roughly tugging down the collar of his shirt and all Jørn can think is that while he's sat in the shade, Øystein is in the moonlight. Can he even see him there? Is Jørn faceless like this? 

"Øystein..." he murmured, half trying to get away from him, half morbidly curious of what exactly he was thinking. His mouth is back on his and nothing makes sense at all.

“Øystein?”

Is it even safe to ask him?

Øystein... do you want our vocalist? 

Is it _me_ you want?

“Øystein, _stop_.” Jørn pushed him away, his lips swollen and red. 

Øystein didn't seem very sure of himself either and they sat there like that unable to say anything. In a way, it really was the perfect revenge, to reject Øystein like that, knowing that Øystein wasn't used to rejection, and especially not from Jørn. 

He eventually found what was to be said, although Jørn wished he wouldn't. Jørn wished Øystein would remain speechless for a while longer, to hold that expression for longer, to have his emotions so clear on his face that for once he can read Øystein’s mind. _‘What the fuck am I doing this for?’_

"I guess after so many months in here, we've lost touch with reality a bit." He said, his voice even deeper than it usually was. And it still stung, even though Jørn would have said it too. Somehow it still stung...

"Yeah..." He stood up, "I'm just gonna head to bed..."

"Goodnight.." Øystein said softly, his wrist trembling as he reached over and picked his book back up. He dropped it at some point and Jørn didn't even hear the bang.

"Goodnight." He said, walking out of his bedroom and shutting the door.

That was when Jørn knew his friendship with Øystein was totally _ruined_ , broken beyond any fucking repair. It wasn't even that sudden, it was a culmination of everything starting two years prior when Øystein kissed him and it made Jørn see him in a different way.

That maybe he wouldn't _mind_ kissing a man if it was Øystein. And was that sincere or was it some sort of lust that managed to outlive the person in question? That Jørn never stopped _wondering_ about him and Øystein, he just stopped believing they could ever find the chance to sort themselves out in the way they should have?

What started off as something mildly frustrating became enraging, to the point where he could hardly look at him anymore. It was apocalyptical, almost. To watch Øystein destroy himself, smash himself into tiny pieces hardly reminiscent of himself. Mind-numbing to have someone so close become a _stranger_. And all of this for what? _’Dead’?_

Øystein dragged them all to the deepest pits of hell for the sake of his petty, stupid rebellion. First Pelle died because Øystein left him home alone. Then Øystein himself died because the devil always gets his fucking due.

But what was there to make out of all of this? The years passed and the memory of Øystein and Pelle are like knives that will always cut him and the wounds from them _never_ heal right. They always end up infected. Even when his friends, in their good natured attempts to help him overcome it, he'll always be afraid of that same cold, death overtaking someone else that he loves…

 

On a Sunday, Jan and him chose to hike back up to the cabin they all used to live in, weathered and worn with age. It still takes a lot of effort to convince Jørn to do these things, but by then he’s more flexible than he used to be. Jan thinks that, hey, Jørn’s almost accepted it, even though it's been over twenty fucking years..

"And? What do you think?" He asks with a rueful smile and Jørn doesn't know what to say,

"I don't know." He chooses answer honestly with a small laugh. He can remember the eighties like this, which seems millennia away. They stare at it for a moment.

"You know what I think?" Jan says, putting his hands on his hips, "I think I'm glad I don't live in this dump anymore." 

And this time Jørn laughs again but clearer. He wonders why he'd give everything up to be a stupid teenage boy again. "I'd have to agree with you, but I'm still glad they haven't torn it down." 

Jan places a hand on his back, as Jørn tilts his head, noticing little details he'd never noticed before, which is strange, considering he _lived_ there. 

"Lets go get a drink, I think we both need one, my friend." 

And Jørn’s ears quirk up those words, glad that even with all he's lost, there's still a calm after the storm.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry.


End file.
